Santa Barbara. Ventura. Marina del Rey. Newport Beach. Dana Point. Oceanside. One week, seven harbors. It was exhausting.

“Where did you come from?” someone would ask me on the docks of each marina.

“Well, we started in Sausalito, but today, we just came from…,” it always took me a moment to remember. An awkward pause ensued. Now, I try to avoid small talk in marinas with strangers if I can, because I’d rather appear standoffish rather than appear dumb. What kind of person doesn’t know where they came from, eight hours earlier?

A tired person, that’s what. 

We’ve been sticking to day sails ever since rounding Point Conception, which, I think I can speak for Garrett, we both prefer. Daylight! Sunshine! Warmth! A good night’s sleep on both ends! Even so, the sun and the wind are draining. I’m still having a tough time doing much whenever we get to port. 

After spending a week recovering from our two long overnight sails, we left Santa Barbara on Saturday, November 19, with plans to meet our friends in Dana Point on Wednesday, October 23. We had a beautiful, sunny sail to Ventura, finally finding a rhythm at sea. One hour on, one hour off. And when you’re off, you’re off. You get to use that time however you want. The hour on watch can drag, but that hour off duty goes by in a wink. 

I didn’t love Ventura, but then again, we spent most of our time in the marina, which felt a little broken down. And there were too many Trump 2020 flags flying off of boats. We’re not in San Francisco anymore, I would think to myself as I stood on the sidewalk, hands on hips, glaring down at those flags. On the bright side, we did get to visit with Garrett’s cousin and her boyfriend while we were there, and that definitely made our stop in Ventura worthwhile.

After a two-night rest we continued onto Marina del Rey, a little bit of a longer jaunt that called for a 4:30am wake up call. We saw two wildfires from the sea that day; saw their plumes billow out over the mountains, saw airplane after airplane swoop down over them with water and exhaust. Twelve hours after our start, we pulled into our guest slip, tired and cranky. It took all of my dwindling energy to convince Garrett to go for a stroll around the Venice Canals. We need to get better at getting off of the boat.

The next morning, it was time to pack up and leave again, to follow the routine we now know so well. Remove all trash. Empty the water from the dehumidifiers. Unplug and store the shore power cable. Start the engine. Switch on the instruments, AIS, inReach, autopilot. Apply sunscreen. Untie the lines, man the helm out of the slip as Garrett pushes us off of the dock. Sometime later that afternoon, we pulled into the Newport Beach Harbor, secured a slip outside of the Harbor Master, met a friend for dinner, walked around Balboa Island, and tucked in for yet another early morning start.

Our sail to Dana Point the next day was brief, I think, just a few hours. It’s hard at this point to separate them all in my head. We arrived, showered, and went out in search of the closest Mexican market to grab some al pastor for dinner, and cooked it for our friends who came in from Palm Springs.

The day after that was magic, perhaps because it was the most time I’ve spent off of the boat for as long as I can remember. We crashed our friend’s boutique hotel, had cocktails in the lounge, napped in a cabana by the pool, walked around Laguna Beach, and caught the sunset near Shaw’s Cove with a bottle of wine. It was nice, to disassociate with the boat for a while, but even nicer still to return back to it and crawl into our own bed at the end of the night.

We spent three nights in Dana Point, two at the docks, one at anchor. Garrett and I loved being at anchor. Even though it was only a couple of hundred yards from the marina, it just felt so…far away. Different. Free—in more ways than one. We haven’t been anchoring for a few reasons: it’s been easier for me to get off and on the boat from a dock with my ankle, our dinghy is up on deck, and we were waiting for a protected cove to try out our newly purchased windlass, a tool that helps us pull up our anchor. But the slip fees at Dana Point were a little outrageous and the anchorage was nice and calm, so we decided to give anchoring a go. And we loved it. “Now this feels like vacation,” Garrett said as we watched the sun drop behind the jetty.

The next morning, as we were getting ready to head south yet again, the windlass broke. Popped out of gear. Wouldn’t bring up the anchor. Frustrated and angry, Garrett pulled up the chain, hand over hand. We were lucky to not be in a rush, to not be in a sea state that jeopardized our safety. The anchorage was calm, and we made it out fine.

From Dana Point we went to Oceanside, another short sail (I think; they really are blending together) that we spent dancing, listening to podcasts, making lunch, reading, waiting for dolphins to stop by. I’ve found that I really enjoy preparing meals while we’re at sea, looking out the porthole over the stove, bracing my feet and hips against the boat as she sways from side to side, catching rogue dishes as they slide across the countertop. It’s like the galley is alive, bewitched, has a mind of its own. 

Being at sea, when the conditions are good, is simple. When you’re on watch, you have one job. When you’re off duty, you have the freedom to do as you please, within a slightly restricted scope. There’s less to get caught up in, less to get distracted by. I know how to spend my time at sea, but I’m struggling to know how to spend it at port. That will come, I hope.

Oceanside was another good quick stop; we got to spend time with friends and their new puppy, see some of Encinitas, watch the sunset over the beach. We woke up to cold gray skies the following day and were flabbergasted. What is this? I asked the universe. We took it as an excuse to be lazy, cuddle up in bed and watch movies, nurse our hangovers. It was a good, cozy, restful day. Our plan was to leave the next morning for our final U.S. leg to San Diego, but the Santa Ana winds gave us pause. Garrett woke up and frowned over the forecast. Everything looked fine on all of our sailing apps, but the local weather was reporting strong winds offshore. We prepared to go, left our slip, and tied up at the fuel dock. Garrett talked to a couple of fishermen. “I’d rather be in here wishing I was out there instead of being out there in those winds wishing I was in here,” one said. We took that to heart, and decided to stay in Oceanside for another day.

I’m surprised, really, that we haven’t run into that before; the weather changing our plans. I expect we’ll be subject to it more in the future. But who knows? It’s okay, either way. We’re not in a rush. 

The conditions the next day were fine, so we got up early and headed out. Our sail to San Diego was like the others—uneventful, albeit long. You have to go pretty far south before tucking back up north to avoid the kelp beds around Point Loma, which adds time. We pulled into our very skinny slip at Harbor Island West Marina just before the sun dropped, gave each other a high five, and, as is now routine after a long sail, relaxed on board for the night.

We’re spending just shy of a week in San Diego, preparing ourselves and our boat for the next step in all of this: Mexico. To legally sail into Mexico, you need a bunch of documents, some of which can only be secured south of the border, so we met up with another cruising couple and made the trek across together. It was surreal, to take an Uber to the U.S. Mexican border and just walk across. To do something so easily that so many others struggle to do. The weight of privilege sat heavy on my shoulders. The significance of being able to walk across the border, get official documentation, and cross back over to the U.S. side in less than two hours was not lost on me.

The document we went to Tijuana for was our Temporary Import Permit, or TIP. It cost us $60 and lets us keep Thisldu in Mexico for up to ten years. Ten years! We’re only planning to be there for a few months, but that’s what a lot of cruisers say, I guess.

We set sail for Mexican waters on Monday, November 4, and will be at sea for three to four days until we reach our first stop, Bahía Tortugas. This will be my longest sail yet. I’m a little nervous, but know that I can do it. Most importantly, I know that Thisldu can do it. She is a rockstar in those open waters, in her element.

I’m nervous, but excited too. And not just for the sailing, but for the changes that will come to our cruising lifestyle. This past month spent sailing down the California Coast has been a nice introduction (well, except for that first part coming out of the Golden Gate); it feels adventurous but comfortable at the same time. I know California, know that I can find what I need at each port. Know that I will have cell service and easy access to internet. Know that I can communicate to people on land easily. It’s all familiar. I’m ready to be in unfamiliar territory, though. I want the big adventure. The struggle of communicating through broken Spanish. The awe of remote anchorages. The food, the music, the zeal of the Mexican culture. I’m about to step into—or sail into—the biggest adventure of my life, and for once, I feel ready.

If you haven’t already, check out Cruising Down the California Coast: Chapter One and Cruising Down the California Coast: Chapter Two.